You’re My Wonderwall

There’s a lion in the celestial bower, a man of honeysuckle blossoms, golden wings, and blinding light.  There’s an angel in the bedroom, dressed in goldenrod, hair platinum – you know, the kind of sunshine in a perfect summer sky, and his laughter rings like the peal of a motorcycle.  His voice is caramel, his words are molasses – smooth and sweet – and he is the picture of poise and good humor and I swear, if I lick him my mouth would be sticky with sugar.  Archangel of mercy, Angel of the Lord that held Abraham’s hand back from wounding the first of so many Prodigal Sons, emissary of benevolence and the fourth sphere of the Sephiroth.

There’s a savior in my window, dancing in tune with the summer rainstorm’s vivacious lightning.  There’s a flame of hope that awakens yearning in the darkness of my heart.  When the lion roars, it is a cry of liberation.  When the chapel bell tolls, he is the shepherd moving the masses up to the cleansing Eucharist.  He is the goblet that my wine spills over, he is the torch of heavenly fire I stole from God’s throne room, he is my star.  Older brother, twin general, bosom friend of my heart, guardian of innocence and girlhood bliss.

When he holds me, it is with the strength and sacredness of temple walls.  When our mouths quest for answers on each other’s tongues, I taste infinity to the tune of eternal joy.  Hands like milk, hands like providence, hands like silk that pick ice splinters from my soul.  Sure, the heart bleeds waters of the womb in the grip of the hearth, but he has been melting me for years, since I was seven and first saw his candle flame eyes, and every lesson in kindness, I learned from him.  He is the essence of lovingkindness and thanksgiving, of the mixed blessing of a giving heart but the curse of never having enough blood to bleed, because patience is endless, but fires need tinder, and it does not do well to burn your patients.

We’re the original hippies – the twin angels of beauty and peace.  What better pairing, like salmon with maple syrup and capers set out with chardonnay.  They say I am a champagne bubble – sparkly, bright, warm-hearted, soft, girly, loving, caring.  But if the psychics are right, and I am a champagne girl, you are the intoxication I cause.  Find us on the beach with Bruce Springsteen playing dancing around a roaring bonfire, find us braiding each other’s golden hair with bluebells – we keep it long and blonde, but that doesn’t mean we’re dumb.  Find us flying through the cosmos chasing the tails of comets and basking in celestial glows.

You can find us anywhere, really.  We’re the Freyr and Freyja of Heaven, the Lovers and Ace of Cups, bubbles and birthdays and barks of laughter you can’t contain.  No one can secret a smile for long around him – his kilowatt grin will illuminate even the darkest recesses of the coldest winter night.  The moths come flying towards his brilliance, but every dark thing is cleansed in his ultraviolet aura.  He taught me to fight, he taught me to keep frith, he taught me family and faith and fearlessness.  My animus of glorious, splendorous bravery, the one who wields the sword in times of war and the scroll in times of peace.  He’s sweet on children, answers endless questions for inquisitive young girls, and is all to happy to play make-believe with aspiring princesses.

Now I’m older, and I’m far from a princess, but my star is still a star – the most brilliant soul in the multiverse – and in the most heinous wreckage, he taught me to glow.

For what is love if you cannot share it, and who is an angel but a missionary of love?



Angel of Mercy

I thought you were a lion among lambs, golden
mane and braids like promise, blue eyes lambent
as the starlight whose name I christened you,
sweet Angel of Mercy, you carry sunny torches,
stoke bonfires with laughter, dance in the sand
as your bold song sails like a swan on the sea.
Ariel, Zadkiel, Sachael. I can’t choose your name.
It was borne aloft far out of reach moons ago.
All I know is that you are my twin angel, forged
in the flames of blue and violet light, haloed
and hallowed, with magenta gown and gold robes.
You waltz with me, run with me, fly with me.
Leonine Animus, Blonde Wonderboy, Golden One.
The strand of sand and foam is your dominion.
The waves and wind your birthright, general of
heavenly lightning, fiery sword and silver shield.
Hail the Angel of Righteousness. Hail the Light.

War and Peace

Michael and Joan of Arc

There you are making every nerve fire with a cocaine high,
drowning blue and burning black, my blood quickens red hot,
and I drift off to Morpheus’ domain where you are painting
scenes from summers to come, springs long gone, pens coiled
in your Titian red hair. You lead the schoolchildren to seas,
teach kindergartners to summon winds, revel in youth’s bliss
as the six and seven year olds frolic in rolling meadows and
shining sands. We are alone in a coffeeshop with books and
our poet’s eyes, we are talking of our favorite flowers and
you are stroking my hand with your scarred thumb, peace flees
and you are on the battlefield in medieval armor with the
Maltese Cross on your chestplate, flaming sword to impress me.

In summer, you are a teacher, in winter, you are a warrior.

In spring you are a huntsman, in fall you are a musician.

But forever, you are my bliss. My golden, bleeding heart.

I would give the world just to hold you in war and peace.

Mayhem may pass, domesticity may quake, but my adoration
at the roses of your reckoning are of an eternal burning.

Holy, Holy, Holy

A flower from your gardens, Paradisaical rose.
You in buckskin, barefoot, wings of whispers,
sunlight hits your skin, flaming sword drawn.
We are in a white marble and gold silk palace.
We are in the fields of France, the Crusades.
You are wild with blood, you are peaceful light.
Golden Eagle, Fanged Lion, raging smoky wildfire.
Wrath of Heaven, Prince of Princes, halo crown.
I am dead and dreaming in your arms, alive and
starving and empty for you, rain down on me
with blessed embers and good, sturdy red clay.
Earth and fire, water and wind, spirit and power.
The kaleidoscope of you is a wind chime in a
hurricane, a king without a throne, ephemeral
yet solid as Petra cliffs, holy and renowned.

Bless me Archangel, lips melt me like snow.

Satanic Blues

Triple-forked tongue like the tines of a pitchfork,
musk of old leather and midnight spill of gasoline,
hands and body of charcoal black, body scaled wax,
carved to burn with ridges like a dragon, a finger
with a pearly claw, blood under nails, oil slick
spit, I’ve got the Satanic blues baby, I ride Hell.

Feast for Crows

Ancient man didn’t have Devil –

Ancient man had winter.

Ancient man had fangs.

Ancient man had wolf.

The shaman’s drum beat pounds out a rhythm like the spinning world’s heart.  I’m flirting with the Grim Reaper, Satan to some, Sam to me, and ask him for a vision.

I am Deer.  I am Doe.  I run through frost and frozen fields, hill and harrow, as crows flock above.  My eyes are amber pools of the hunt, I dart away from the cry of the lupine far above this snowy winter valley.  I am long brown legs, I am soft fur, I am giving venison and bleeding heart.

Wolf comes.  Wolf has red eyes and fangs like moonlight.  We dance, we run, he sinks his fangs into me and tears my ribs out, but it is a sweet death, and my flesh is restored instantaneously.  We nuzzle and race, threading through peeling birch past a crystal river, paw prints and hoof prints into the unknown.

“What do you want from me, Samael?”

“To chase you.

Saint Teresa the Slut

I’ve had my Saint Teresa of Avila Moment,
pierced through the heart by smiling fire,
palpitations that break aortas, archangel
squeezes the deepest chasms of my lifeblood,
my soul pools and oozes brilliance staked
by his flaming sword, purifying the zuhama
that breeds black rot on I, the cardiophore,
bearer of the fruit, Lapis Exillis apple
that flutters like the shyest of organs.

I am drowning, I am flying, I am dead.